


Whumptober 2019

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blood, Crowley has Trauma from the Fall (Good Omens), Domestic Violence, Ficlets, Fist Fights, Gun Violence, Highway robbery, M/M, Mid-Canon, Minor Injuries, Panic Attacks, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Swordfighting, Violence, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-11-09 10:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 12,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20851664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: A collection of fics inspired by the Whumptober 2019 prompt list





	1. Shaky Hands

London 1941  
"That was very kind of you." Aziraphale's voice practically oozed gratitude, Crowley told himself that it makes his skin crawl rather than tingle.  
"Shut up." Playing it cool, Crowley finshed cleaning his glasses and slid them back on to his face. Minute tremors in his fingers were amplified up the arms and risked him poking himself in the eye.   
"Well, it was. No paperwork, for a start. The books! I forgot all about the books-"  
This was Crowley's cue, the real payoff for his efforts tonight. While Aziraphale fretted about the lost books, Crowley prised the leather bag from the hand of a dead Nazi. He held the bag out towards Aziraphale, willing it to stay still and not betray the shivers he couldn't quite calm. Aziraphale's jaw fell open and that sweet rush of affection swamped Crowley. Mission accomplished, then.  
"Little demonic miracle of my own" Crowley felt Aziraphale's fingers make contact with his own and pulled his hand away faster than he wanted to. "Lift home?"  
He had to walk away then, his facade was cracking and he had put too much into this rescue, this too-cool act, to have it all come crashing down now like the walls of a recently bombed church. He walked to the car nearby, carefully keeping his hands in his pockets and his face turned away from Aziraphale to hide the pained winces everytime he took a step.  
After making some very complimentary comments about the Bentley, Aziraphale lapsed into silence. There was a lot that would need to be discussed before long, but it appeared that Aziraphale was just as unwilling to damage their fledgling reunion as he was. Driving gave him something to focus on, something to take his mind off the immense catastrophe he'd just barely escaped.  
"Can I interest you in a celebratory drink?" Aziraphale offered once they were stopped outside the bookshop.  
Crowley looked at the blackout blinds and the spiderwebs of tape crossing the windows. He didn't really feel like socialising just then, it wouldn't be right. And besides, he still had a lot to process.  
"Not tonight, angel. Soon, though." He gave a tightlipped smile and gripped the steering wheel with with whiteknuckled fingers.  
Once he’d seen Aziraphale safely inside the bookshop with the door locked behind him, Crowley sped off, desperate to put some distance between them.  
Without thinking about where he was heading or any destination in mind, Crowley drove around London and tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to him when he ended up back outside the ruined church, but it was.  
People had come outside by now, checking for damage to other buildings and digging out the remains of the dead. Some were trying to rescue valuable or significant items from the rubble whilst others were looting, shamelessly. Crowley watched them, his vision getting blurry with unshed tears.   
It had been far too close a call for comfort. He’d felt it when the bomb hit, the strain on Aziraphale keeping them safe, the pressure from the church protesting Crowley’s unholy presence, the fabric of belief and reality and ineffability stretched further than Crowley had ever felt. His feet still hurt, sharp burn sensations shooting up his leg with every movement.  
It was all too much, he had come too close to losing everything that mattered to him. Aziraphale had given no sign that he understood how serious the situation had been. Damned stupid angel, running about and playing spies in the middle of a war. Bloody stupid Crowley, having to play the hero all the time, with maximum dramatic effect. There were a hundred better ways to have gotten Aziraphale out of that church in one piece, he felt sick just thinking about the danger he’d put them both in.  
Crowley got out of the car, shivering with pain as his feet hit the pavement. There was an eagle lectern, standing proud amongst the rubble, Aziraphale had been stood in front of it less than an hour previous. As a souvenir, it would serve as a reminder not to be so bloody dramatic the next time Aziraphale needed rescuing, and there would be a next time. Crowley lifted his hand to pull the demonic energy he needed to miracle it home but the tremors of earlier had evolved into full-blown shakes. He couldn’t snap his fingers, he could barely hold his hand up.   
Crowley sat in the wreckage of the church, put his hands over his face, and cried. Finally letting himself feel the weight of the fear he’d been suppressing.


	2. Explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Number 2!

It was a balloon, of all things, that nearly broke her. Warlock had been turning 3, a lovely age for encouraging the inner hellion to break loose. He’d been particularly destructive over the last few months which, of course, Nanny had encouraged gleefully. It should have come as no surprise that, upon being handed a balloon that had fallen free of the decorative archway his mother had insisted on, Warlock immediately set about trying to crush it between his little fists. 

POP

And then everything seemed to happen at once. 

Warlock burst into tears, mostly from the shock.

A champagne flute was dropped and shattered on the parquet floor.

Crowley couldn’t breathe.

Secret Service men reached for their weapons in a smooth synchronicity.

That sound, that sudden snap as contained pressure was instantly expanding and equalising. Crowley had heard a sound like it only once before and it had been at a point in her existence that she tried desperately to forget. As it turned out, the sound of a balloon popping in the hands of an overtired three-year-old is remarkably similar to the sound that announced the creation of Hell and the sudden demotion of 10 million rebellious angels. It was a moment that haunted Crowley more than she had ever admitted and now it was replaying in her head with all the clarity of an IMAX movie.

Screams of the Falling filled her ears, there was blood and smoke on her tongue and her chest  _ burned _ with a fire she’d never felt before. Crowley blinked, this wasn’t happening, this wasn’t real. The screaming was louder now, and familiar, it took her a second to recognise her own voice, torn with agony. This wasn’t even how it had happened, she hadn’t worn this form back in those times. Her memories twisted the events into terrors all the more unbearable for their relation to the present day. Crowley saw Aziraphale, staring at her dumbfounded with his flaming sword at his side. Flames licked up her back and turned her wings to soot. She slammed her hands over her ears and tried to block out the pandemonium around her. Aziraphale wasn’t there, he hadn’t seen her Fall. Her mind was playing tricks on her and she couldn’t separate fact from fiction. Dimly, at the back of her mind, Crowley was aware that she had fallen to her knees and that there were real people around her, hovering uncertainly at her periphery. Sulphur filled her nostrils, the feeling of falling grabbed at her stomach and squeezed. Her forehead pressed against the cool wooden floor in an attempt to ground herself in the present but she couldn’t see and she couldn’t breathe. 

“Ms Ashtoreth?”

Was that her name? Was someone talking to her? Hands gripped her shoulders and eased her up into a kneeling position. 

“Look at me, look at me and listen to my voice. You are safe, you are protected.”

The voice was familiar but different. Crowley forced her eyes open, afraid of what she might be faced with. Aziraphale, in his ridiculous disguise, was knelt before her looking concerned.

“Where did…?” Crowley looked around.

The party guests were all still stood in their little clusters, Warlock had been scooped up by his mother and given a piece of cake to quieten him. Crowley knew that he’d be a nightmare with that much sugar in him when it came time for bed. The thought was strangely grounding, something mundane to bring her back to the present.

“Come on, up you get.” Aziraphale stood and took her hands, helping Crowley to her feet. “I’ll just take Ms Ashtoreth outside for a bit of air, sorry to intrude Mrs Dowling.” The West Country drawl fitted all too well with his deferential formality.

Crowley let herself be led out to the garden where Aziraphale insisted that she sit and sip a glass of water he seemed to procure from thin air. Crowley thought that he might try to make her talk it out, but all Aziraphale did was sit next to her and stroke her back until her breathing returned to normal.

Warlock didn’t have balloons at any future birthdays, even after Nanny Ashtoreth had left the Dowlings.


	3. Delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Day 3!

Delirium

Trust an angel to get so caught up in treating the sick that he forgets to keep his physical form healthy. Crowley would have laughed at the stupidity if it weren’t for the obvious distress on Aziraphale’s face.

“I think I’m getting sick, Crowley.”

Like the 14th Century needed to get any worse.

As it happened, Aziraphale had contracted the plague from one or other of the many sick humans he had been tending to. He’d been running his corporation into the ground, getting food and clean water to as many people as physically possible. It was something of a miracle that he hadn’t been brought down any earlier, really. Of course, it would take more than some pesky bacteria to actually discorporate an angel, even one as lax with his well being as Aziraphale had been lately. Despite that, Crowley couldn’t help worrying. The Arrangement was still in its fledgeling stages, but they had done enough to warrant hiding their involvement from head office, as it were. The only sensible thing was for Crowley to move in with Aziraphale and look after him until the disease had run its course. The only option, really.

It was a sign of how unwell Aziraphale was that he didn’t put up more than token resistance to Crowley’s suggestion. He had a reasonably modest townhouse in Florence and had been working amongst the lower classes as much as possible, still, Aziraphale had his human comforts in the form of a large bed, well-appointed kitchen, and finely tailored clothes. It was to his oversized bed that Crowley ordered him for enforced rest. The fever hit the hardest, as angelic forces went into overdrive to drive out the infection and Aziraphale went downhill rapidly.

Crowley did all he could: forcing cool water into Aziraphale’s mouth, changing the sheets and bedclothes frequently, allowing fresh air into the room to refresh fevered skin, and cycling cold compresses over Aziraphale’s tortured brow. Other than to fetch water and broth, Crowley never left Aziraphale’s side, often slumping down in the chair beside the bed to catch a few minutes rest between his nurse duties. 

Aziraphale was wracked by the fever for almost a week and insensible for most of it. Crowley spoke to him in gentle tones, telling him about the news from town that the maids reported and any funny stories from Hell that he thought Aziraphale might enjoy. He spoke until his throat was sore and then pushed through, feeling that it was important to give Aziraphale something to focus on in his delirium. For the most part, Aziraphale tossed and turned, mumbling Aramaic and Mesopotamian gibberish under his breath. One afternoon, Crowley found that he was being watched by unfocused blue eyes.

“Crowley?” His voice had been barely a whisper.

“Oh, angel, yes I’m here.” Crowley moved from his chair to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Will you hold me? I’m lonely.”

“I’ve been here the whole time… But fine, OK.”

Crowley slipped off his boots and slithered onto the bed, trying not to disturb any part of Aziraphale. He curled up behind him and draped an arm loosely across Aziraphale’s shoulders. He brought his other arm around to stroke Aziraphale’s sweat-damp hair. 

“Is that OK? You’re still burning up.”

“Yes, this is just what I needed. Stay for a while, please.”

“Of course, angel.” Crowley nearly choked on the words. 

At some point, Crowley drifted off to sleep, lulled by Aziraphale’s soft breathing and overt warmth. When he awoke, it had grown dark and Aziraphale was mumbling to himself.

“What is it, Aziraphale?”

“I said I love you, Crowley. I love you very much. Thought you should know.”

Crowley nearly wept. His face was buried between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades and his embrace tightened, holding them closer together than he’d ever dared before.

“I love you too, angel. Always have.” He managed to force the words out, undoing millennia of self-conditioning.

“I know.” Aziraphale trailed off into sleep once more.  
Crowley held Aziraphale until the sun rose and the kitchen maids arrived, chattering loudly enough to be heard from two storeys away. He slipped out of the bed and began the routine of changing the sheets and drawing fresh water for Aziraphale. He was damp with angel sweat himself and needed to change. And if he miracled the shirt back to his own residence with a thought to never, ever wash it, well that was hardly anyone else's business, was it? 

Aziraphale’s fever broke that afternoon and he finally fell into a more restful sleep, his features smoothed back to their usual placid beauty. Crowley had planned on leaving at this point, but now he had to know, he needed to know if it was true. He waited another 18 hours for Aziraphale to be fully awake and lucid. 

“How are you feeling? Better now?”

Aziraphale was spooning broth to his lips, having waved off Crowley’s attempts to assist.

“Oh yes, much better. I still ache rather a lot but overall it’s a great improvement. I must thank you, Crowley. You’ve taken good care of me, I understand.”

Crowley grinned a snakish smile.

“I did what I could. Couldn’t have you discorporating and leaving me alone here, could I!” He kicked himself for the joke. “Do you remember much from the past week? Anything you said, did, asked for?” Crowley tried very hard not to sound hopeful.

“Not a thing!” Aziraphale said brightly.

And that was that. Crowley made his exit then, no need to hang about in an angel’s house any longer than necessary, after all. For the next 600 odd years, he slept with an old Florentine style shirt under his pillow.


	4. Human Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some heavy domestic violence material in here, please be warned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some heavy domestic violence material in here, please be warned.

"Please?" She looked far too small and vulnerable and Crowley cursed himself for even hesitating.

The faint yellowing around her eye told of an older bruise, still healing. She cradled the wrist of her left arm, livid marks in the shape of a hand wrapped around it. Crowley nodded and stood, putting himself between the woman and the door.

A thick bull of a man burst into the bar, his face red with anger and exertion. He looked around, seeking his prey but finding only Crowley leaning against the bar and sipping whisky.

"Mate, you seen a girl come through?"

Crowley put his glass down and returned the man's gaze with an easy smile that spoke more of the snake than the man. The woman was still behind him, cowering and unknowingly shielded from detection.

"I think you had better leave." Crowley suggested.

The man hesistated, suddenly unsure of his motivations and swamped with the desire to turn himself in at the nearest police station. He was starting to turn when the woman let out a muffled sob and broke the protection. He charged across the room, snarling. Crowley kept himself between the pair, angling around the woman as much as possible.

"You litte bitch, of course you'd run straight to another man. Been planning this, have you?" He looked around at the empty bar, finally noticing that it was empty of even a bartender. "Been meeting here, I bet. Making a fool of me with this skinny streak of piss?"

She was trying to deny it, to explain, through tears and sobs that choked her speech and dripped off her chin. Crowley didn't let her get in front of him, constantly blocking the line between them. She had her hands on his back, reassuring herself of his presence as a shield.

"Leave, before you do something you'll really regret." Crowley warns again, but the man isn't listening.

He swung at Crowley, connecting a powerful right hook with the side of Crowley's face. That hurt. Crowley saw stars and tasted blood, his teeth appeared to be less attached to his skull than he remembered, but most of all he was angry. He'd been hit before, of course, but this was the first time that he hadn't really deserved it. Before he could retaliate, a second blow caught him in the gut and knocked all the air out of him. The woman was screaming in fear, seeing Crowley apparantly laid low so effectively only increased her terror.

"Stay... behind... me." Crowley huffed at her, straightening up.

The man grinned and cracked his knuckles, visibly daring Crowley to try to attack. Of course, he didn't know what he was really facing. With a second to compose himself, Crowley concentrated on finding that deep, dark fear that lurked within every bully like this. Crowley was almost delighted by the simplicity, once it had been revealed to him.

"Look at you, grown up to be just like your father." Crowley lowered his voice to little more than a whisper.

"What? How'd you-"

"Another powerless little man with no imagination. Using your fists to get what you want because everyone knows that you haven't got anything worthwhile to say. You're so threatened by the idea of feeling inferior that you walk around wanting to challenge everything." He slipped his sunglasses down his nose and looked the man in the eyes. "We love your sort, you know, down where I'm from. Let me show you what you've got coming."

Crowley put a grain of knowledge in the man's head, just a taste of what Hell would be like once he got there. The mockery, the helplessness, the scorn, all far more effective on souls like his than anything as simple as pain. The man paled and lowered his fists.

"What did you do to me?"

Crowley pulled his glasses all the way off and let his tongue wet his lips, just taking a beat, before showing a flash of his true form the the man.

"Run."

And he did.

Crowley took the woman to a refuge after making sure that her wrist was no longer broken. He'd ask Aziraphale to spare a blessing for her later, Crowley knew he wasn't up to the sort of charitable thinking that would require. His jaw still ached and he got dizzy if he moved too quickly, but the woman was safe and could begin healing. The bruising on his face was a nuisance, but might get a fun response out of Aziraphale, Crowley thought as he turned his steps towards Soho.


	5. Gunpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale take a road trip during the time of highway robberies.

Hounslow Heath, 1682

It was a rare pleasure to travel with Aziraphale for any distance, especially since the Arrangement had been established. All too often it would be agreed that only one of them needed to make a journey so Crowley had jumped at the chance to travel to Bath in the company of his best  <strike> only </strike> friend. They were not yet three hours into a journey that would take at least two days, perhaps more if the horses were quick to tire or the coach houses poorly provisioned. Travel in this fashion wasn’t strictly necessary either, but Crowley could always count on Aziraphale to want the authentic experience. He was sat across the coach, positively buried in pillows and grinning out of the window with such unabashed delight that Crowley could barely stand to look at him.

“I’ve heard some troubling news about this road, you know.” Aziraphale broke the silence suddenly. “Reports of highwaymen, they say.”

Crowley didn’t care to ask who ‘they’ were and why he should be bothered about some thugs riding around the countryside, but there was a dangerous look to Aziraphale; a certain curve of mouth and sparkle of eye that Crowley knew all too well. What he knew was that it spelt trouble.

“Aziraphale, you can not possibly want us to be held up, surely?” He sighed and cast his eyes to the ceiling of the carriage.

“Oh no, no, of course not! That would be ridiculous. I only meant that it might happen, and it might be rather exciting if it does!” 

“You are the most absurd creature.” 

Aziraphale did his little pleased shoulder wiggle which Crowley knew he shouldn’t find as adorable as he did but was helpless to anyway. The horses kept on, the sound of their hoofbeats and the repetitive jangle of the harnesses and traces formed a hypnotic rhythm that made Crowley drowsy. He hoped that Aziraphale was wrong, that this journey would just be pleasant and peaceful, but he also knew that the universe enjoyed screwing him too much to pass up an opportunity like this.

Twenty minutes later, Crowley was awoken by the sudden appearance of an angel in his lap. The coach had come to a sharp halt and the inertia had thrown Aziraphale clean off his seat.

“Sorry Crowley, I didn’t mean to wake you!”

“Shuttupangel!” He muttered in a low voice whilst trying to push Aziraphale low between the benches.

Something felt off, forcing Crowley into an uncomfortable state of alertness. The sun was still up, so surely this was no robbery, he reasoned. Voices were being raised outside but Crowley couldn’t make out the words. Aziraphale was squirming to try and get out from under him but at least he was keeping quiet. 

“Stay down.” Crowley hissed as he removed his knee from Aziraphale’s chest.

The raised voices became shouts and yells, a horse whinnied in fear, and then there was the sound of boots hitting the ground. Crowley could only hear one set of footsteps, coming along the left side of the coach. If he timed it well enough, he and Aziraphale might be able to slip out of the right-hand door and hide. He put one hand on the handle and reached out behind him to grab Aziraphale’s collar. His fingers groped at empty air, stretching to find that damned nuisance of an angel. He turned to look just as Aziraphale opened the door and stepped out of the carriage.

“Good afternoon gentlemen!” Crowley’s stomach dropped, more than one then. “How can we help you today?” Aziraphale sounded far too bright for a man who was staring his death in the face.

Laughter erupted, apparently this was so far from a normal response that the highwaymen were utterly thrown. From his vantage point, Crowley saw Aziraphale laugh with them and clap his gloved hands together with mirth. It was short-lived, as the muzzle of a pistol appeared in between his eyes. Crowley gulped and raised his hand for a miracle, intending to deal with the situation quickly but Aziraphale caught his eyes and gave the slightest shake of his head. 

This accomplished two things: firstly, it told the robbers that there was another person in the coach, and secondly it confused Crowley enough that he dropped his hand, power untapped. He slithered out of the coach, confidence and cool exuding from him like pheromones. He couldn’t look at Aziraphale, couldn’t bear to see the fear in the lines of his face again. Instead, he took in the highwaymen, counting three of them with a horse each. Two were ahead of the coach, blocking the way and looking generally gormless. They were armed with swords and apparently less wit than a below-average platypus. The man with the pistol pointed at Aziraphale’s face was clearly the leader of the sorry gang, probably the older brother Crowley though, noticing a family resemblance. Swords didn’t worry him, especially not in the hands of idiots like these, but pistols were unreliable, prone to misfiring, and altogether too dangerous to be that close to Aziraphale.

“What seems to be the problem?” Crowley asked, casually, as if the problem wasn’t obvious.

“Your money or your life. And then, obviously, your money anyway.” The leader responded with what was obviously intended as humour.

Crowley nodded and took a seat on the step of the carriage and patted his pockets until he found his snuffbox. The act was everything, he had to make them believe that he was as relaxed and as in control as possible so that he could take the reins of the situation. He dropped a pinch of snuff in the hollow between thumb and wrist and sniffed. He offered the box around to the robbers and their own carriage driver. Of course, no-one took him up on the offer but he had established himself as the character he needed to be.

“That’s not much of a choice.” Crowley crossed one leg over the other and brushed dust off his shoe. “What’s to stop you from taking our money and then our lives anyway?”

The bandits looked like this had never occurred to them before. 

“Uh, well, if you agree to give us your valuables, we’ll put our weapons down behind that rock.” The leader pointed with his free hand. “And then you can go.”

Crowley saw the shake in his pistol hand, the weight of iron and wood was starting to affect his strength. As long as the matchlock stayed up, it should be OK, he reasoned.

“Very well, you put the weapons down and we’ll give you whatever you can take.”

Aziraphale squeaked, clearly afraid of losing something important. Crowley’s heart jumped at the sound, his careful bravado at risk of destruction in the face of Aziraphale’s distress. The bandits looked to each other and shrugged, swords, knives, and the pistol were deposited behind the appointed rock. Crowley tried not to visibly sag with relief when they walked away from the stashed armoury. A moment later, some very confused field mice with sharp tails and a sparrow with the taste of gunpowder in its beak all came into existence and ran away.

“Let’s start with you then, posh git.” The leader advanced on Crowley with his hands ahead of him like dirty claws. “These look like they cost a pretty penny.”

His fingers closed on the arms of Crowley’s dark spectacles. Aziraphale started to object but Crowley held up a hand. 

He looked the leader in the eyes, his yellow irises spreading across the sclera as he relaxed the control he held over his form. A thin, forked tongue flicked out from between grinning lips.

“D-d-demon! DEMON!” The man dropped Crowley’s glasses, smashing them on the floor in his haste to get away.

His brothers needed no encouragement to follow him, remounting their horses and not even checking for the weapons that had been deposited.

Crowley waved them off cheerily, reaching one hand into the folds of his coat to retrieve a replacement pair of glasses before the coach driver got any funny ideas. 

“We’ll carry on when you’re ready, driver!” Crowley offered his hand to Aziraphale as he climbed into the carriage.

Once they were both inside, Crowley sagged and rubbed his face, lifting his glasses. 

“Aziraphale, angel, you will be the death of me. Do you know what it would do to me to see you discorporated like that? Right in front of me? I need you to be more careful!” It was too vulnerable, too close to the truth, but Crowley couldn’t hold it in.

Aziraphale moved across the coach and sat beside Crowley, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“I’m sorry, I’ll be more careful. Oh please don’t cry.”

It was too late, Crowley had used up his self-control.


	6. Dragged Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has such high hopes for the Rebellion. When anything is that high, there's only one way down...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See notes below for a fic inspired by this chapter

Change was in the air; Crowley could taste it, heavy with promise and potential. Lucifer strode ahead of the group, leading from the front as always. He was so easy to follow, charismatic and understanding of the indignities and inequalities that affected angels of all ranks. If anyone could talk God into giving some answers, some clarity, it was Lucifer. Crowley was sure of it.

There were so many of them, marching together in solidarity and lending their weight to the arguments that Lucifer was going to raise. It felt good and right, they were achieving something that many of them had only dared to speak of in whispers. These were his siblings, his friends, Crowley felt nothing but love for all of them.

They had reached the gates of God’s domain, other angels were gathered there with anxious faces and twitchy wings.

_This is for you as much as for us!_ Crowley thought to himself. Every single angel would benefit from hearing the answers to his questions.

The gates opened to admit Lucifer alone. They had expected this, prepared for it. The amassed angels were to wait outside while he took their petition before God. He was to speak for all of them and they trusted him.

Time as a concept didn’t exist yet which made it difficult to judge how long they might have to wait. It looked like some of the crowd might lose their nerve, feet shuffled anxiously and looks were passed between angels like hidden notes. Crowley was solid, though. He knew that his questions were worthwhile, that the angels deserved to know how they fit into the big picture.

When it happened, it happened all at once. Out of nowhere, Lucifer appeared in front of the gates with fire in his eyes and a sword in his hand. Whatever he roared, Crowley never heard it: the mob exploded into a violence fuelled by indignation, anger, and confusion around him. His sword was in his hand before he recognised summoning it.

He wanted to scream at them to stop, to throw down their weapons and listen to reason, but the chaos around him killed any hope he had of being heard. Crowley headed for Lucifer, still wanting answers and needing to know what had gone wrong. The angels around them were attacking in earnest now, corralling the rebelling force from all sides. Too late Crowley saw the trap for what it had been.

He pressed forward, desperate to reach Lucifer before it was too late. Swords arced towards him and he parried them, sick at the idea of attacking his fellow angels.

Lucifer was outnumbered and overwhelmed. Through the wall of advancing angelic attackers, Crowley saw Lucifer brought low by a swipe to the back of his knees. The next blow came from above and struck him between neck and collarbone, sinking deep into his core. Crowley screamed at the sight, at the knowledge that his hopes were dying.

The ground around Lucifer’s knees seemed to soften and then melt. His limp body sank downwards and off the sword until it was falling. Crowley watched with horror, recognising the significance. He span to warn his fellow rebels, to urge them to reason and peace. Their number had been severely reduced and pockmarks littered the ground, healing and reforming around the spaces where angels had been cast out. Crowley dropped his sword and ran into the fray.

“Brothers! Please, stop! Do not fight! Forgiveness isn’t beyond our reach!” Crowley pleaded and begged the stony faces of his comrades to no avail.

Beside him, an angel took a slash across the torso and slumped down. Crowley bent to help her.

“Stand, please. Come on don’t give up!”

She began to sink and Crowley stepped back in horror. The ground swallowed her as it had so many already.

Hands closed around his ankles, alerting him to another stricken angel. He reached down to them, to try to pull them clear of the hollowing maw.

“You can stop this!” He cried.

“Why would I want to?” The angel asked, glassy-eyed and monotone.

They began to fall, still holding Crowley’s legs. He fell onto his face and clawed uselessly at the ground, seeking any kind of leverage. His wide and panicked eyes saw only laughing angels, victorious in their quashing of the uprising. Confused, hurt, alone; Crowley Fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Works inspired by this fic:
> 
> [Dragged Away by RobyntheMagpie_Writes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20968172/chapters/49856729?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_255569057)


	7. Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Day 7

In the early days, it hadn't been unusual for centuries to pass between meetings. The odd encounter here or there was a rare treat to be savoured: a cup of wine in Thrace, a theatrical performance in Persia, a feast in Egypt. It seemed to Aziraphale that it should have gone the other way. They ran into each other more frequently as time went on and the population grew. Which didn't make any sense, really. They should have been taken further apart by their assignments, less likely to cross paths as the flock grew to number in its millions.

  
Thinking about why the inverse might be true often gave Aziraphale a headache, so he had long ago decided to take it as the gift that it was and enjoy Crowley's company as often as he could. They had weathered the flood, Sodom and Gomorrah, the rise and fall of more empires than humanity would remember, even the blasted 14th Century; all of it borne together and made easier for the company.

  
Of course, over the past 800 years or so a good amount of it had been for the benefit of the Arrangement; meetings to compare notes, assignments, to decide on where to assign blame and credit, to enjoy the orchestra or a travelling exhibition. They were sporadic by necessity, the idea of a routine or schedule left them too vulnerable to detection. It seemed unlikely, by this point, that anyone was keeping tabs or checking up on them. Just as Crowley had said when he had first floated the idea, no-one actually cares.

  
At the very least, for the past century or so, Crowley and Aziraphale had met a minimum of once a year and often as much as every other month. Aziraphale found it reassuring, this companionship that he had allowed to develop; he felt less alone in the world when he knew that Crowley could be reached at any time and within the hour they could be together and sharing a cup of wine. It was comfortable.

  
Aziraphale was increasingly finding himself to be deeply uncomfortable.

  
It had started with a note. A simple note of folded paper in the hand of a messenger, a messenger who took the coins and waited to see if there would be a response to run across town. The wax seal parted easily, the serpent cleanly decapitated by Aziraphale's letter opener. The message was brief, somewhat cryptic, and very disappointing.

  
_"A, will be taking a nap for the foreseeable. Wake me if anything important comes up. Yours, C"_

  
He had dismissed the messenger, a few extra coppers in hand for the disappointment of no future work, and sat down at his desk. The bookshop was still new, still novel and fresh. The decor was contemporary, the geometry inside matched the physical space marked by the external walls, the opening times were almost regular. Aziraphale's desk was clear and organised.

  
He tried to think back to a time when Crowley had informed him of his sleeping arrangements before. There had been the decade in the early 12th Century when Crowley had apparently forgotten to wake up, but he had explained that after the fact. Again, he had cleared off for 18 months around 1652 when he had finally bought himself one of the new duvets and found it impossible to resist. Again, though, Crowley had only acknowledged his absence once he had reappeared. This led Aziraphale to an uncomfortable conclusion.

  
Crowley was intending to sleep for a period that far exceeded his previous disappearances.  
Aziraphale did not like that idea at all. And worse, he had no one to complain about it with.

He had never really felt alone before that moment. Sat at his desk with the note in his hands, Aziraphale felt truly alone for the very first time.

Every day for 91 years Aziraphale hoped for one of two things. He hoped for an event significant enough to warrant waking Crowley, and he hoped most fervently to hear the chime of the bell above the door of his shop. But only if it was followed by the unmistakable footfalls of a demon who had never been sold on the idea of functional hip joints.

**Isolation**   
_Anonymous_  
_c. 1878_

An empty chair,  
Wine for one,  
The conversation is lacking,  
Where once it flowed.  
What drove you away,  
Will I ever know?  
If you knew,  
How missed you are,  
The hole you've left,  
Would you return?


	8. Stab Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sodom and Gomorrah have seen better days, so has Crowley.

OK, it’s a bit worse than a scratch but it doesn’t look fatal. I can manage with this. There, tear some strips off the sleeve and tie it nice and tight. You’re a demon, Crawly, you can manage with a bit of blood loss. You don’t even need blood.

Oops, the ground got away from me a bit there. All better now, both feet on the floor.

What’s that smell? Taste it, it’s familiar. It’s been a while but I know that smell. The memory of brimstone never really leaves you, does it? Sulphurous and cloying.

Yuck.

My hair’s going to smell for decades after this. Not important though, not really. Look at them all out there, running and screaming. Poor fools. You shouldn’t have ever trusted that rainbow; She said she wouldn’t drown you again and look, She isn’t. Look at how not drowning you are. No one could accuse Her of drowning you right now. You’re all just being burnt instead. And why? Because you wanted to know who the new guys were.

You ask me, not that anyone would, but if they did ask me I’d say She got this one backwards. Lot offered up his daughters, made sure to tell the crowd that they were _untouched_ because virginity is such a damn important virtue.

Ouch.

Note to self, scoffing hurts.

How can She look at a man who tried to give his _daughters_ to a group of strange men and decide that he’s the one worth saving? What’s so wrong with asking who the visitors are? Two strange men turn up in town and there’s been a spate of kidnappings, you’re going to want to ask questions.

I need to get back out there, there are still people I can save.

Listen, listen.

It’s just the two angels.

Sandalphon is off to the east now, my blood probably still on his sword. Savage.

Where’s the other…

Ah, yes, Uriel is to the north, holding back any that try to follow Lot.

South-west, then. I can take some of them that way.

It won’t be enough and I won’t be as fast. Damned angel blade, I can’t heal it. But I can still save some of them. I can always get a new body if this one fails.

At least the fire and brimstone aren’t a bother for me. Can always get the wings out to shelter them if I have to, better to not draw the attention though.

Oh.

You’re a surprise.

Hello, blue-eyes.

No, no, let me pass. You have to let me pass.

New sword, I see. This one doesn’t suit you so well.

Let me out of this alley or stab me, Aziraphale. I have _work_ to do! I will knock you down if I have to and don’t think that I won’t. Stubborn angel.

Young souls who deserve a chance to make their own choices, I’ll spin it for you if I have to but we are _wasting time_.

You’ve never touched me before. I’d love to stay and savour this unique experience but there isn’t time. Get your hand off my chest. _Please._

Bless it all, I’m weaker than I realised. Or you’re stronger. Not important really. Pushing past isn’t an option though.

Yes, yes, I got nicked. Just a little, stop fussing.

Don’t take that off.

Aziraphale, you’ll hurt me more than Sandalphon did.

Right.

Well.

Yes, I’ll give you that.

That is actually quite a lot of blood.

The ground has gone all wobbly again, it’s like standing on a blancmange.

Does this seem like any kind of time to be laughing at me, Aziraphale? Oh, you’re not laughing. Fuck, no, don’t cry. I’ll be fine! Don’t cry!

Are angel tears technically holy water? I hope not, that would be just the **worst** way to go. Can you even imagine? No, don’t make me laugh, it really hurts.

It _did_ hurt.

What did you do?

Why? Why would you heal me?

I’ll think about this later. Kids to save and all that. Yes, south-west, I know.

Thank you.


	9. Shackled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley just loves swooping in and rescuing Aziraphale, but what will he do when he realises that this rescue is a poorly constructed ruse?

The two things that define Anthony J. Crowley are a flair for the dramatic and a near-obsession with the safety of one Principality Aziraphale. The opportunity to combine his two favourite past-times didn’t present themselves very often and needed to be taken full advantage of when they did arise. This is why he waited until Aziraphale’s back was turned to manifest himself into the holding cell of the Bastille, froze the executioner, and adopted a casual pose.

Playing the hero was good fun when he came to think about it later. The way Aziraphale had lit up when he realised that he was safe would warm Crowley’s withered heart for years. There was something else gnawing on his mind, though, something he didn’t like the feel of.

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, angel. Only humans do that.”

An excellent opening line, if he did say so himself. Announcing his presence and his understanding of the situation in one go. Aziraphale had looked so pleased and then mildly scornful, like Crowley’s extremely stylish outfit was somehow a personal affront. It was exactly the look that Crowley had been aiming for when selecting his outfit.

“What the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille? I thought you were opening a bookshop”

It was the follow-up to this question that planted the first seeds of suspicion. There was no way that Aziraphale didn’t know what was going on over here, all he did was read and all anyone was writing about was this blasted Reign of Terror. There was simply no conceivable way that he didn’t know.

“Why didn’t you just perform another miracle and go home?” It was time to catch him out in his lie.

Lying is a trait that Crowley also excelled in, rather better than he would like if he was to be honest about it, which he wasn’t. Ever.

Led by Aziraphale’s ridiculous lies about reprimands, strongly worded notes, and his general helplessness, Crowley fell into an all-too-familiar pattern of pretence. He had just been in the area, got a commendation and thought he should find out why. See, Aziraphale? You’re not the only one who can pretend they don’t know about what’s going on over here.

Crowley laid another verbal trap.

“Looking like that?”

Aziraphale walked right into it. And he knew it.

Crepes were eaten and corporations back firmly on British soil, Crowley said his goodbyes to Aziraphale and returned to the rooms he kept on the Strand. The floorboards creaked under his pacing feet, tested again and again by his irregular steps and aborted turns.

Just what was Aziraphale playing at? Crowley had found him shackled up in the cells of the Bastille with an executioner literally eyeing his neck for the guillotine. His number was up, his ticket had been punched, the doctor would see him now. It wasn’t a game. If he had been discorporated, there would have been questions, there might have been an investigation, they risked being discovered. Aziraphale knew this, he knew it and he was always harping on about how careful they had to be, how they couldn’t risk detection at any cost. He was the biggest advocate of precaution.

Crowley was running out of conclusions to draw. Aziraphale knew the risks, he always knew the risks.

Aziraphale had got himself locked in the Bastille on purpose.

Liars, as a rule, hate being lied to. No one likes being manipulated. Crowley was currently facing the realisation that he’d been had, been used by Aziraphale. He did not like that feeling one bit. Crowley had been mooning around after the angel for almost as long as there had been a moon to imitate, but this was the first time that he felt truly on the back foot. Aziraphale was playing a game and Crowley hadn’t even realised, now he’d have to catch up, find the rules, and work out the best way to break them. It wasn’t what he wanted, it wasn’t how he wanted their friendship to develop. He had plans. Now it all seemed sort of pointless.

Crowley smacked his head with his fist in irritation. Just thinking about his entrance, his attitude, his sheer bloody glee at rescuing Aziraphale; it made him feel sick. It was contrived, false. Those shackles might as well have been made of paper for all it mattered. Aziraphale hadn’t needed rescuing, he had _wanted_ to be rescued. And that changed the narrative significantly.

Ultimately, Crowley felt used. The trust he had been fostering between them had taken a blow and he didn’t know where to go from here.


	10. Unconscious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 10. Mid-canon. That is all.

His head hurt.

His head hurt and it was dark.

His head hurt, it was dark, and he wasn’t alone.

These were his first three thoughts in the moments after regaining consciousness. What followed was an assessment of his position (uncomfortable), the surface he was leaning against (cold and damp), and the smell of the place (sour and unpleasant). It was largely what he had expected.

The back of his head throbbed, sending pulses of pain around his skull. The thought of lifting his head from its current slump was not appealing. Under that pain, he could feel minor scrapes on his knees, hands, and cheek from his collision with the pavement. His wrists were bound in front of him, he could tell by feel that it was some kind of rope. A teeny-tiny prod with his power suggested that it was impervious to demonic power. Not just for show then.

This darkness warranted some attention before any kind of movement was attempted. His sunglasses were still in place which was a pleasant surprise. Lack of light wasn’t a good enough reason for these eyes to be failing him; there was something over his head, something physical obscuring his vision. Coarse fabric scratched at his cheek, his shallow breaths were creating a warm and humid space just in front of his mouth. It seemed a fair assumption that there was a bag over his head. The mysteries were just solving themselves this afternoon.

A low muttering caught his attention and he fought to keep his head slack and still. There was no need to let his captors know that he was awake any time soon. He had heard these voices before when his mind was rising from the murky depths of insensibility. They were speaking in a tone that defied all known boundaries of language, species, and corporeality: the universal tone of gossips.

“Execution’s too good for ‘im if you ask me.”

“I din’t ask you. But yeah, it is. What happened to an eternity of torture, eh? The Lower Downs have gone sof’, I reckon.”

There was a grunt of agreement followed by shuffling footsteps.

“How long ‘til he wakes up, y’reckon?”

There was no audible answer which meant that he had no warning for the kick that connected with his ribs and sent him sprawling across the floor.

“I think that’s got ‘is attention!”

The pair of demons shared a laugh, a nasty and guttural sound that resonated with the pain building behind his eyes. He groaned, appearing muzzy and disorientated as he pushed himself up on to one shaky elbow. Bony hands grabbed at him, pulling him back to a sitting position with rather more force than was necessary. Again, that throbbing pulse of pain grabbed his head until he felt dizzy with it.

The bag was removed from his head in what was probably supposed to be a dramatic flourish, but it got caught around his ears and nose. His glasses were askew, but still on his face, once the bag was finally wrestled clear of his face. He lifted his hands to settle the sunglasses into place and flashed a toothy grin at his guards.

“I don’t think much of your hospitality. The alarm call could use some work.”

Before they could respond, he negotiated with his spidery limbs until they agreed to support him in an attempt at standing. The room span around him, a further symptom of the concussion he would be suffering from until his hands were free to heal himself. With luck, that would be the worst thing he would have to worry about today.

One of the demon guards jabbed him in the shoulder with a stick, as if touching him might be dangerous.

“You’ve kept ‘em waitin’ long enough now, Crowley. Time to pay the piper.”

One deep and calming breath later and Aziraphale sauntered after his chaperones, leaving his holding cell and entering the hall of judgement. A bathtub was already present. The plan was going to work.


	11. Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 11! And we're in Wessex

The army encampment was the last place Crowley wanted to be; no matter the time of day there was always someone around who might spot him. He kept to the shadows as best he could, using the cover of darkness to limp from tent to tent around the perimeter of the camp. The tent he was headed for was set just a little away from the others, not quite fitting in with the group, not fully assimilated. That’s where Crowley would find what he needed.

Pressing his right hand to the wound in his thigh, Crowley stumbled over to the tent and knocked at the canvas awkwardly.

“Aziraphale!” He hissed, low enough to avoid detection. “It’s Crowley, open up!”

His vision swam, blood loss making the world sway around him. The sudden activity from inside the tent, the scrambling of fingers working the fastenings were a sweet relief. Crowley didn’t think he could stand for much longer.

“What are you doing here, Crowley? I already told you I’m not interested in your proposal!” Aziraphale flung open the tent flap and paled at the sight that greeted him.

Crowley grinned weakly.

“Hi, angel. Didn’t know where else to go.” Crowley lifted his bloodstained hand in greeting and allowed a fresh flow of blood leak from the slice in his leg. “Oh, oops. Didn’t mean t’do tha-” He fell forward into Aziraphale’s tent, insensible.

A torrent of cold water sluiced over Crowley’s injury, jolting him into consciousness rather rudely. His whole body jumped in shock. He had to sit up, to look around, and get to safety. He didn’t know this place, this wasn’t his home, he had to leave. The panic that gripped him was more ambitious than realistic. Crowley only managed to lurch forwards from where he lay on his side and bury his face in a pile of furs.

“Sshh, Crowley. It’s OK. You’re safe.”

A warm hand touched his shoulder, tentatively at first. That soothingly familiar voice relaxed Crowley into allowing himself to be pulled back on to his side. Aziraphale was staring down at him looking as concerned as Crowley had ever seen him.

“Hello, Aziraphale.” Crowley beamed, wondering when he’d managed to get so drunk.

“Yes, hello Crowley. It’s so good of you to wake up. Do you think you might like to tell me why you’re here? In the middle of the night? With a wound that neither of us can heal?”

That rang several bells, loud and discordant, in his aching skull. He lifted one hand to his throbbing temples and realised that almost all of his clothes had been removed.

“Why am I naked?” He asked, stupidly.

“I had to check you for other injuries. And you aren’t fully naked.” Aziraphale sniffed, moving away.

Regret clutched at Crowley’s heart, recognising the damage he was doing their fragile friendship. Sure enough, he was still wearing his braies although one leg was torn and bloodied. Of course, now he remembered why he’d been in King Arthur’s camp with a stubborn leg wound and seeking out the only being on this earth he trusted.

“Sorry Aziraphale, I can explain. Or, if you prefer, I can leave.”

It wasn’t a bluff, Crowley hated himself for imposing on Aziraphale like this. He’d rather risk discorporating than truly annoy Aziraphale. The warm hand was back on his shoulder, pushing him down into the furs.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re not going anywhere in this state.”

A fraction of the tension left Crowley’s body and he allowed himself to relax a little, realising too late that he was currently reclined upon Aziraphale’s own cot.

“I was minding my own business, spreading foment, scaring the locals, you know. Demon stuff.” Crowley began by way of explanation.

Aziraphale nodded and pulled a small wooden box from his pack. A wave indicated that Crowley should continue.

“This prick in armour comes galloping along, waving a sword about and demanding that the villagers bring out their best pigs so that he can take something back to Arthur’s camp for dinner. These people are _poor_, Aziraphale. They don’t have best pigs, they have one pig. If he’d taken it, they’d have nothing for the winter.”

“I see.” Aziraphale said simply, concentrating on something out of Crowley’s eye line.

“So I told him to jog on, obviously. Might have used slightly more colourful language, I suppose, but that was the gist of it.” Crowley warmed to his tale and settled deeper into the bed. “Well, he wasn’t having any of that so he drew his sword and made like he was going to run me down. I let him get close enough and then gave him the old demonic visage. Spooked the horse well enough, no doubt about that, but the wanker already had his sword out and caught me in a lucky swipe right across the thigh. No idea why neither of us can he-OW! What the _fuck_, Aziraphale!?”

Aziraphale looked up, surprised. There was a large hooked needle protruding from the flesh of Crowley’s thigh and Aziraphale had the bare-faced cheek to look surprised.

“Terribly sorry, Crowley. Did you want me to leave you with an open wound so you can just bleed to death?” Sarcasm was a surprisingly good look on Aziraphale.

“A bit of warning might have been nice, is all.” Crowley retorted, cowed.

Aziraphale hummed something that could have meant anything from an apology to an admonition. Crowley forced his leg to relax and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Was it a big bay horse with white socks?” Aziraphale asked as he drew the needle through and secured the first suture.

Grateful for the distraction, Crowley cast his mind back.

“Yes, it was. I think there was some kind of bird on the heraldry, too.”

Aziraphale’s mouth became a grim line.

“Sounds like Mordred. I worried that he was up to no good.”

A beat and Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide.

“His sword is blessed! Oh, Crowley, that explains it. You must be more careful with these knights, most of them have some kind of blessed weapon or girdle or helm.” Aziraphale was insistent.

Crowley winced as another suture was tied off.

“I’ll bear that in mind, angel.”

At the very least, thought Crowley as Aziraphale finished stitching his wound, at least he knew now that Aziraphale did care about whether he lived or died. That was something he could hold on to.


	12. Don't Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 12!  
A coffee date has an unexpected visitor drop in

Crowley sat in the coffee shop, nursing his espresso for as long as he could. An affected giggle split the air with irritating regularity and grated at Crowley like nails on the blackboard of his soul. As soon as Aziraphale arrived, he would insist on changing location just to get away from the unbearably chipper barista and this appalling version of customer service.

There was a television on the wall opposite Crowley’s seat; the looping film-student-level presentation had worked as a distraction for a while but now it was just another layer of background annoyance. The worst part was that Aziraphale wasn’t even late, yet. Not for the first time, Crowley cursed his desire to show off, to demonstrate how reliable he was, to never let Aziraphale down. All too often it left him enduring the worst torments with which humans had infected their everyday lives.

The coffee was too bitter on his tongue, the grounds scalded by poorly managed water temperatures, and the taste lingered longer after each sip. Through the folding glass wall, currently shuttered against the November chill, Crowley caught a glimpse of snow-white hair and creamy-gold corduroy. A little of the tension left his shoulders but, with three years remaining until the end of the world, most of the tension had signed a rather longer lease.

“Crowley.”

He looked up, mouth hanging open in surprise at hearing his name before he could place the voice. Recognition filtered into his brain just as his eyes found the television screen now displaying a sight far worse than student acting.

“Hastur.”

The omission of his title clearly rankled Hastur, Duke of Hell, Crowley noted with a little thrill of petty spite. That thrill was quickly extinguished when he realised what would happen in 30 seconds when Aziraphale walked into the coffee shop. Behind dark glasses, his eyes widened in panic and flicked from screen to window and back again.

As far as he could figure, Hastur wasn’t able to see the door from the television screen. He would have mere seconds to pull this off and discretion was going to be key. Crowley closed his eyes for a second and thought pointedly at the door.

_You are jammed._

“Crowley, you are to report on our Master’s child tonight. We expect details this time.”

“Uh-huh, yeah.” Crowley was staring at Aziraphale, willing him to make eye contact before reaching the door.

Finally, he looked down from his usual head-in-the-clouds walking stance and saw Crowley, a heart-melting smile lit his face and his hands came round from behind his back so that he might wave. Crowley lifted his hand from where it hung over the side of the chair, hidden from Hastur.

“Are you even taking this assignment seriously, Crowley?” Hastur growled and loomed closer to the screen.

_Please, please, please don’t come in yet. Please understand._

Crowley tried to make Aziraphale understand, giving the universal signal for ‘give me a minute’ with one finger, but he had to turn his head back to face Hastur. He had no way of being sure that the message was received. Breathing had fallen by the wayside of things to think about some time ago.

“Huh? Oh, Hastur. Of course not. It’s only the culmination of the Great Plan, isn’t it? Obviously, I’m half-arsing it and hoping for the worst.” Crowley affected a deeply sarcastic tone, knowing Hastur would fume about it for hours afterwards.

With a strangled shriek, Hastur cut his connection and shorted out the television in the process. A puff of white smoke signalled its death. Crowley slumped and took a shuddering breath deep into his lungs.

It had worked, Aziraphale stood uncertainly just beyond the door waiting for a signal that all was clear. Crowley shot back the rest of his espresso and stood as if his pelvis had been tugged forward on a string. With a wide smile for Aziraphale, he strode to the door and pulled.

It was jammed.

Two more strong tugs and a very pointed thought about how quickly gratitude could sour and Crowley was outside, he greeted Aziraphale and hurried him away from the coffee shop.

“Awful coffee and the atmosphere just wouldn’t agree with you, angel. Let me take you to that chocolate place with the stupid name you love so much instead.”


	13. Adrenaline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 13! Aziraphale has a visitor to the bookshop.

“Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr Fell?”

The most unusual thing about the man was the way that he made Aziraphale’s skin crawl which was a remarkably rare quality in a human. He was well-dressed, professional-looking, and politely spoken, the sort of thing that should put a person at ease. Aziraphale had never been a person and wasn’t about to start now, so perhaps that was why he was able to pick up on the undercurrent of malice he carried. Aziraphale recognised the presence of a man who was too comfortable in the company of Death.

He removed his glasses, placed them on the open book in front of him, and took his time in standing up from his desk. He hoped to appear calm and unhurried, a serious man who was not to be trifled with, using the delay to steady his needlessly racing heart was just a fringe benefit.

“You do. I am A. Z. Fell, proprietor. How may I be of service?” His voice stayed light, pleasant even, prepared to dismiss his misgivings.

“Wonderful! I’m here on behalf of my employer, Mr Ramsay.” A pause, deliberate and weighted.

Aziraphale knew the name, he’d had letters enquiring after his interest in selling the bookshop, letters from a solicitor also working on the behalf of one Mr Ramsay.

“Oh? And what can I do for him?” A pounding beat in his ears threatened to deafen him, the unfamiliar thrumming of his own pulse.

The man offered no further introduction, not his name or calling card. Now apparently content that he had the attention of the right person, he took a step towards the bookshelves. His manner became the kind of casual that could cover a multitude of sins. Aziraphale was all too familiar with this kind of performance, it had been invented, perfected, and patented by a demon of his close acquaintance.

“I’m sure you recall the correspondence we’ve been sending your way. Mr Ramsay asks me to thank you for your continued good manners in humouring his requests.” He inclined his head towards Aziraphale, a throwback to the days of courtly bows. “However, he has also asked me to visit you _personally_ to see if we might be able to come to some mutually agreeable arrangement.”

Aziraphale scoffed and immediately felt the chill of regret grip his abdomen. The man gave a dangerous look.

“Kindly tell Mr Ramsay that I appreciate his generosity and time, but that no amount will make me reconsider my position. I will not sell my bookshop.”

The physiological responses Aziraphale was experiencing made no sense. He shouldn’t have been feeling a film of sweat on his brow and top lip, hearing the frantic staccato drumming in his head, he definitely shouldn’t have been glancing towards the door and identifying makeshift weapons within his grasp. It made no sense for him to fear this human, he could deal with this inconvenience in any number of ways. Yet, here he was, near trembling at an exchange that would pass as polite to any outside observer.

“I had feared you might feel that way. I said as much to Mr Ramsay this very morning. We both agree that you must be _very_ attached to this shop. It would be such a difficult thing to see a man separated from his passions.”

It was most assuredly not a threat. So quite why the hairs on the back of Aziraphale’s neck chose that moment to stand on end was a complete mystery to him.

“Ah, so we’re in agreement! Lovely. Well, unless I can interest you in a copy of Wilde’s latest short story collection, I suspect our business is concluded.” Aziraphale spread his hands in the manner of one attempting to corral a gaggle of geese.

The man sidestepped and appeared to browse the stacks, his continued presence setting Aziraphale’s teeth on edge.

“Funny thing, bookshops. So full of paper, like a tinderbox just waiting for a spark. I _do _hope you’re careful with your lamps, Mr Fell.”

His malice was unmistakable. Aziraphale’s palms itched with a fury that bordered on the righteous. His chest burned for breath, aching from working too hard, too fast. This human body responding on levels that Aziraphale had no understanding of, the lizard brain response urging him to attack or flee.

“I think you had better leave. And perhaps you should like to think about what you’re doing with your life!” Aziraphale snapped, putting rather more meaning than he had intended into his admonition.

Watching the dark-suited gentleman retrieve his hat from the stand by the door and take uncomfortably rigid steps away, Aziraphale felt a modicum of remorse. Interfering with free will like that wasn’t an ideal choice. He sank into his chair and willed his hands to stop shaking, a mug of steaming cocoa appeared between them, thick with cream. At least his books were safe for now.


	14. Tear-stained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whaddup, it's day 14. Today is a different take on the ol' century-long depression nap.

The frenzied scratch of pen nib against paper echoed around the sparse room. Crowley hunched over his writing desk and poured his heart down his arm and into the pen he gripped, watching his innermost secrets flow across the page. His throat burned; the tension of a hundred suppressed sobs choking him like a noose.

_Dear Aziraphale, _

_I simply can not do this dance any longer. _

_It is too painful, too difficult for me to see you this often whilst feeling the way that I feel. I know that you know, angel. How could you not? I see it in your eyes when you look at me with pity, the way you are ever so careful with making sure we never touch. _

_I have spent far too long hoping and wishing that you might be able to return my feelings. I told myself that it was enough to be your friend. I am done lying. I will not lie to myself, or to you, any longer. Aziraphale, I love you. I love you in every way that it is possible for one useless immortal to love another. _

_I am more afraid of what hiding this love will do to me than anything that Hell could concoct as a punishment. Please, I beg you, put me out of my misery one way or another. Tell me to leave you and I shall. Tell me that my feelings are returned and you will find me the most attentive companion that you could wish for. _

_I have laid out my cards, angel. I lay myself at your mercy. I love you. _

_Yours, always _

_Crowley_

The pounding in his head was deafening; his heart threatened to burst right out of his chest. Lighting a candle stub, Crowley read over his letter once more, aching at the vulnerability he was preparing to expose. A combination of fear and exhilaration overwhelmed him.

Knowing that he could be sending a death warrant for his heart, Crowley finally succumbed to the tears that had been threatening since Aziraphale's fingers had brushed his two days previous. Aziraphale had leapt away, dropping the teacup that Crowley had been holding out, and yelped as if he had been burned. Wounded to his emotional core, Crowley had left Aziraphale and spent the intervening hours in the turmoil of his unknowable feelings. Tears streamed down his face and dripped from his chin, splashing wetly on to the writing desk.

With vision too waterlogged to be useful, Crowley folded his letter and hid the terrible things he had committed to paper. A blob of hot wax dripped on to the join, pressed with the seal he used only for Aziraphale, and the letter was done. There was a boy in the foyer of the building, hoping for such an errand, perhaps only because Crowley expected that there would be. He pressed a coin into the boy's palm and sent him off towards Soho. He would sleep until he got a response, he saw no point in prolonging his suffering by pacing the hallway and awaiting his heartbreak.

~x~

Aziraphale paid the boy and took the letter, curious that Crowley would need to send a letter across town instead of simply visiting himself. He parted the seal and unfolded the letter. There was ink, sure enough, but no words to read. The letter appeared to have been left out in the rain or dropped in a puddle. Aziraphale regretted having given the delivery boy such a generous tip if this was the care he had taken with his duty. Aziraphale resolved to tell Crowley not to engage that boy again, just the very next time he saw him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That wouldn't be for some time, though...


	15. Pinned Down

Pinned Down

Crowley didn't see the blow coming. If he had, perhaps he'd have been able to brace himself or actually taken a footing that wasn't purely decorative. But he didn't, so he couldn't. Hastur sent Crowley sprawling to the ground with one well-aimed punch.

"The fuck?" Crowley rolled onto his back and lifted himself onto his elbows. "Hastur? You just punched me!"

Hastur shook his hand as if the attack had hurt him, the sneer on his face suggested that the opposite was true; he'd enjoyed hitting Crowley and would relish the chance to do it again. He stepped towards where Crowley lay, looming menacingly.

"You'll be lucky if that's all I do. You've got some explaining to do." He lifted a foot and planted it on Crowley's chest, pushing him back down to the ground. "I worked for a decade, sowing temptations and planting ideas to earn that soul. He might have been a saint if it weren't for me, this was going to be a real low point in my career." Hastur paused as if to collect himself. "Then you. You! Waltz in at the last minute and corrupt the entire monastery in under 24 hours."

Crowley winced. 

"Oh."

Hastur leaned more weight onto Crowley's chest, crushing his chest beneath his boot.

"Yes, oh." His black eyes narrowed as he waited for Crowley to come up with something more impressive.

"Hastur, look. I didn't know." Crowley's ribs creaked ominously. "Hell don't exactly send me everyone's activities. That's big picture stuff. Above my pay grade." He spread his hands in a concilatory gesture, huffing shallow breaths through the pain.

"That's right, you don't need to be concerned with what anyone else is doing. You just stay out of everyone's way, don't you, Crawly?" Hastur pressed harder into Crowley's chest as emphasis.

"Yes, of course, Hastur, you're right." He nodded frantically. "I stay out of the way."

"You may have impressed some of the Lower Downs, but you don't fool me. You're filth, no better than the rats scrounging from a midden heap. You belong on the ground, squirming like the worm you are."

Crowley felt a rib crack and yelped with pain. His hands scrabbled against the dirt floor, uselessly raking furrows as he tried to get out from under Hastur's foot.

"I'm nothing. This was my mistake, Hastur. You did all the hard work. Take the credit. You deserve it." Crowley was desperate now, feeling his internal organs being compressed and recognising the very real risk of being discorporated.

"Remember your place in future, worm." And Hastur was gone.

Crowley sucked air into his screaming lungs and immediately regretted the exaggerated movement, his ribs protesting loudly. With a wave of one shaking hand, he healed the fractures and bruises so that he could roll on to one side and curl up into a ball and cry.


	16. Stay With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!
> 
> Looks unlikely that I will complete Whumptober but I'm really happy to have got as far as I have. A few of the prompts are still calling my name so I'm not done yet...

_I can fix this, I can still put everything to rights. Please, I need you._

Ever since he’d seen Crowley sauntering towards the bandstand, a grim look on his face and a downward cast to his shoulders, Aziraphale had wanted to tell him everything. There was nothing he wanted more than to lay out his cards and show Crowley that everything was in hand. He had faith, he knew it would be OK just as soon as he could get the right people to listen to him. Crowley was acting up, blasphemy falling from wounded lips.

“May you be forgiven.” A benediction, an olive branch, a hope.

_We can still pick sides. Pick mine, Crowley. Don’t make me go through this without you._

“Unforgivable. That’s what I am.” Crowley shrugged, refusing to understand Aziraphale’s meaning.

“You were an angel once.” It’s almost a question, almost a plea.

Aziraphale fretted, worrying his fingers around themselves and frowning so intently that his face hurt. A lot of him hurt. Saying these things out loud was impossible, his tongue tripped over itself trying to push forbidden words past his teeth only to find his lips locked tight against them. It wasn’t safe to meet in the middle any more. The risk to Crowley was too great.

“This is ridiculous. You are ridiculous.” Crowley practically spat the words.

_I know, I am, but I’m trying. Why can’t you try too?_

“Enough, I’m leaving.” Crowley turned and walked away, ripping Aziraphale’s heart in two as he went.

“There isn’t anywhere to go.” Aziraphale panicked, relieved to see Crowley stop.

The end of the world, the end of the universe, the end of creation. It would all boil down to the same fact: there was nowhere they could go that would be beyond the reach of their superiors. Crowley had to know that, he had to know that running away simply wouldn’t work. Aziraphale wanted to believe it was possible with all his being, but he couldn’t. It could never be. Not alone or together.

“We can go off together.”

_If only we could. I would, in a heartbeat, please know that. Do you know what I would give up to see you safe and happy?_

“Listen to yourself.”

_Please, listen to me. Hear what I can’t tell you._

Crowley became agitated, more animated than usual, spitting words through bared teeth. Tears prickled Aziraphale’s eyes until they threatened to overflow on to his cheeks and into the open. He blinked, looking away and upwards, trying to disguise his heartbreak whilst hoping beyond all reason for Crowley to see through his act.

“I don’t even _like_ you.” His voice was thin and petulant, even to his own ears.

“You _do_.” Crowley wasn’t trying to convince Aziraphale, he was simply stating a fact that they both knew.

Millennia of never giving it voice, of never thinking it too loudly, of never even imagining a world where such words could be exchanged, and Aziraphale still know the truth of it. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Crowley, nothing at all. There was nothing in Heaven nor on Earth more important to Aziraphale than Crowley’s safety.

He steeled himself as best he could, knowing that what he had to do would hurt far more than anything he had ever endured before.

“There is no ‘our side’, Crowley. Not any more. It’s over.” At war with himself, Aziraphale forced out the words.

_I’m sorry. I love you too much. If you can’t come with me, go back to your side. I won’t give up on fixing this, but what is the point if you aren’t safe?_

Aziraphale bore unwilling witness to Crowley’s reaction, a punishment inflicted on himself as penance for the wound he inflicted. He saw hope leave Crowley’s face, fight leave his shoulders, and determination flee from his will. The sight of a heart breaking was not new to Aziraphale, but he had never been the one to deliver the blow before now. It crushed him into dust, ground finer with each retreating step that Crowley took.

His tears fell in earnest now, unseen by infernal eyes. A gamble he’d never wanted to make could now not be undone, his hand had been forced and he would have to see it through to the end. Whatever that end might be. Aziraphale knew, deeper than his corporeal form allowed, he knew that he had pushed Crowley past their breaking point.

_Unforgivable. That’s what I am._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic: Dragged Away](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21134678) by [Lurlur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur), [robynthemagpie_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes)


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